


Solace

by queenofthemeadow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Down Character(s), Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Era, Drama & Romance, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, I'm a big softie, Light Angst, POV Multiple, Prophetic Dreams, Romantic Soulmates, Telepathic Bond, True Love, everything is consensual here friends, past trauma, sandor is basically entirely composed of insecurity what else is new, sentimentality up the wazoo, stay tuned folks for your regularly scheduled mush, tags and warnings to be added when they apply
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2018-09-17 23:29:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9351245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthemeadow/pseuds/queenofthemeadow
Summary: This is a Soulmates AU.  Sansa and Sandor have been connected through their dreams since they were born.  When they finally meet in person, it is due to an unfortunate circumstance.





	1. sea, sky

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I would try my hand at this for a bit of fun. This story will take more shape as it progresses.
> 
> The premise requires that these two be closer in age, so Sansa is aged up and Sandor is aged down.
> 
> This chapter is from Sandor's POV. The next chapter will be from Sansa's POV. I'm utilizing POV when I need it in terms of the story, so switching chapter by chapter may not be a regular thing. This is un-beta'd, but I have done my best, and will continue to do so.
> 
> Shoutout to GRRM for these gorgeously complex characters and their dynamic.

>   
>  **"You rain on me - I sky you… I hand you my universe and you live me." - Frida Kahlo**  
> 

There had never been a time when Sandor had not dreamt of her.

When he was a child, she was as well. He could see her, small and bright, learning her courtesies. She had always possessed a ready mind. Pretty words spun from the rosebud of her mouth. She danced and sung so sweetly that he loathed the morning when it came. Unlike him, there had never been a time when she was not beautiful.

Through the years, she changed with him. Her hair grew longer. She continued to stand ever taller, just as he did. Her voice drew away from the chirp of a swallow to more so favor the coo of a morning dove. Despite the occasionally hazy quality of his dreams, he continued to note her changes. She bloomed amidst the snow - sweet and fine. She was good and giving, even when she was childish or sharp. Even before his face was pressed into the flame, he wondered how it was possible for a creature like her to be meant for him. 

Her body began to shape itself. She was composed of velvety curves that easily grew flushed. When he had reached a certain age, some dreams took a new quality to them. She blushed so prettily when he kissed her, or held her tightly against him. She sighed as he eased his hands over her. Her pull on him never wavered. She was so eager for his touch. She would hold tightly to him, encouraging him every step of the way. “Please.” Her quiet words were so full of longing, so fervent. There was something so incredibly debauched about the manner in which she spoke or moved against him. Yet, each murmur was akin to a prayer - full of reverence and adoration. He would always wake, stirring, restless, and alone - his body full up of wanting.

Every passing year was more daunting than the last. He started to get used to the fearful glances of others - the looks that had previously only been pointed towards his brother, Gregor. They whispered as he passed. _There goes another Clegane. No doubt he’ll be the same as his brother._ They thought he couldn’t hear. 

_I may be ugly, but I’m not deaf._

Bitterness curled and grew more and more fixed in him as time went on. An anger that he had never previously possessed made his hands shake, turned his words to a growl. The only solace he found was in sleep.

She never turned harsh in his wake. She never shied away from him in fear, or held disgust in her eyes. She was never unkind. This remained unchanged, and he could scarcely believe it. 

When he was a man grown, he still endured incredibly elusive flashes of swaying copper tresses. This image was seemingly permanently fixed in his mind. He would watch as she walked. She would move like a bird, as if she meant to take flight. The light would catch in her hair, turning it to flame. It burned him from the inside out, but he was never afraid.

Sometimes, for a moment, he would feel the barely-there press of her hands against his face. He would feel his breath catch, but he wouldn’t hear it. Her fingertips gently eased over the lines of his face, treating the ruined side no different from the other. When this sensation reached him, he was always frustrated to find that it was not accompanied by an image. He couldn’t see her before him though he felt that she was there. It was as if his eyes wouldn’t open no matter how hard he fought. He always fought. He tried to reach out for her, but it was as if he’d turned to stone. Just as he would come to this conclusion, her touch would recede. He couldn’t move to search for her. He couldn’t even call out. Sometimes this is all he would dream of. The waking hours that followed seemed less easy to bear.

A night without experiencing her azure gaze finding him through a crowd was a rare one. Though it was one of the dreams that reoccured more often than not, it was the least detailed. It was hard to grasp. While he only perceived colors and the faint suggestion of shapes, he knew he was standing in a vast, expansive hall. It was packed full of men and women. Despite the overwhelming, though only implied, commotion, he could feel her eyes on him. This was always clear. She pervaded the space surrounding him, despite the distance between them, and the others who lingered closer. He looked up, and was instantaneously held in her bright gaze. The blue of her eyes swallowed him up completely. The waves crashed over his head and he could no longer breathe. He drowned. He made no attempt to save himself. He never did.

On the nights that his subconscious chose to be kind to him, he would feel her in his arms. Her body never tensed or fought against him. She was soft and at ease. Sometimes he could even see her laying next to him - freckled and rosy. Her long hair would burst out across the pillow. Her hands would ease against his chest, exploring each ridge, mark, or scar. He would speak, low and intimate, and she would laugh. He lived for the musical sound bubbling out from her throat. The sunlight that streamed in from the windows around them was her too. The air he breathed, the security he felt in that instant, was all born from her. Touching her was like grasping the sky. She shifted and shone under his attention. He fought against waking for as long as he could, holding on to her even as the morning consumed him entirely.

Even his nightmares wore her face. 

He could recognize the storm that brewed - the dread thick in the air, though without the comforting promise of rain. His nightmares were dry. They caught flame easily. He could always smell smoke, and the source of it always made itself known. The only light came from the fire that swirled before his eyes, too close and too inescapable. It didn’t matter how earnestly he attempted to flee. The flames always persisted. They were not the soft, fragrant, bending tresses of her hair. They were searing and hateful. They threatened to overtake him. He would find her through the darkness that fell over itself. He would try to take her with him - to save her. She would burn him. His skin blistered, bubbled, and blackened. He wouldn’t stop trying, though his body screamed for relief. Her eyes would turn on him, and they wouldn’t be the vibrant, kind shade he knew. They were always hard and faded, not unlike his own. He would shy away, not able to bear it. 

He lingered on the quiet dreams by the sea. It would be dark, and the light of the moon would bend and dance across the receding and returning waves. She sat by his side, leaning into him for support. Her head rested on his shoulder and his arm encircled her. Her breath came soft and slow, and he could feel this against his skin. She slept peacefully, and he didn’t try to wake her. He just wanted to rest there for a while, for as long as he could. He could smell the salt of the sea, and the faint shine of lavender and citrus that he knew rose from her - her hair, her skin. This dream was bittersweet. It held on to him in the moments after waking. When he rose, he would swear her scent was caught against his clothes. He shook the sleep from himself almost aggressively. It was often too difficult in the day when he knew the proceedings of the night had only been a farce. 

He didn’t know her name. He had never seen her before in his life, aside from when he dreamt. Yet, he felt her every waking moment. She was there in him like an ember that could be coaxed into a raging inferno as easily as the closing of one's eyes. Sometimes he was certain that he could hear her singing if his mind was quiet enough. 

It was common knowledge that one dreamt of one’s soulmate, but Sandor couldn’t believe that someone like her truly existed, let alone that she was destined for him.


	2. smoke, flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa reflects over the subject of her dreams and looks back on a difficult time in her childhood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank everyone for the support I received in the wake of my last chapter! All kudos, comments, and bookmarks are greatly appreciated. I truly love any and all feedback!
> 
> This chapter is from Sansa's POV. These first two chapters somewhat serve as a prologue. The next chapter will further the plot and set things in motion.

>   
>  **"My soul and yours are the same, / You appear in me, I in you, / We hide in each other." - Rumi**  
> 

“He’s black of hair and grey-eyed. I’ve never seen a man so tall or so strong. He’s quite fierce, but he’s kind as well.”

Sansa’s answer rarely differed when asked about the subject of her dreams. Her mother had only asked about him a couple times, when necessary. However, her friends often talked about their intended. They compared natures or tried to determine clues in order to discover their identities. No matter how many times Sansa responded to an inquiry, her face never failed to carry a smile and a faint flush. Her answer was brief and polite, though she always yearned to speak further. She wanted to sing of the delicacy and skill of his hands and the low, longing thunder of his voice. She often lingered on the ripple of the muscles of his torso, the earnest manner of his movement, and the steel of his eyes that could spark or soften so completely. Yet, she held her tongue, as per usual, and left those thoughts to her dreams or her moments of silent reflection. Such things weren’t to be uttered aloud by a Lady. 

However, with such dreams, innocence, or the concept of it as it was considered in high-born circles, was often brought to an end as soon as one began to leave the years of adolescence behind. Though Sansa was still a maid, she knew something of love. Her dreams were vivid, with a shine for small details. They flowed like the songs she adored, but were ever so much more than she could imagine on her own. She didn’t speak of what it was like to surrender to him - to trust him. In her dreams he touched her as if he feared he might ruin her. There was a hesitation, a caution in him that rarely slipped away. Sansa relished the nights where he would appear, as brazen and intense as a storm. Those nights he would hold her so tightly and so desperately she thought she might burst, and still she would urge him to hold her closer, to join with her ever more completely. She would never utter a word of those dreams, though they set her aflame so finely. 

Sansa never mentioned his scars either - primarily, the one that marred his face. Though she had been very young, she could remember its birth so clearly that it might have only taken place the day before.  
Upon reflection, the moments before seemed hazy in comparison to the surreal spark of distress that suddenly gripped her mind. She had abruptly stood, softly crying out as if she had accidentally held her hand to a flame. The needlework in her lap fell to the ground, forgotten. Her blue eyes stared vacantly before her. She trembled, and her small, thin hands came to faintly rest against the side of her face. Her brow was touched with consternation. Words shook from her parted lips, though they carried no sound. 

_“Wait! Don’t! No, please!”_

Tears filled her gaze and fell with a broken sob to accompany them.

“Little Lady? Lady Sansa! What is it?”

Sansa had been taken to her chambers to rest. She wasn’t able to explain her misery. She couldn’t focus her mind -her thoughts were scattered and fragmented. An exhaustion hung over her like a thick fog. She knew it had something to do with _him_ , but the space in her mind where he rested was then the quietest it had ever been. Sansa welcomed sleep as it quickly overtook her, her little body curling in on itself under the heavy furs that kept her warm. 

The smoke was thick. She blinked against it, coughing as she attempted to breathe. This dream was different from any she had found herself in before, and she had a distinct feeling that it didn’t belong to her. Sansa struggled onward, her eyes watering and her lungs straining. She heard him before she saw him. 

A sob echoed around her. Her gaze darted about, but the smoke was too dense. She followed the sound as best she could, until his figure came into view. She rushed towards him, extending her arms out to him. His crouched figure jolted away from her, his face buried in his hands. _“Stop! Don’t look at me.”_ His small voice made the smoke around him quake.

She paused. He took a shuddering breath. 

_“It hurts. It hurts so much.”_

Another sob rang out from his body, and it struck her. She could hardly take the sound of it. She came to his side, finding that the smoke wasn’t as thick when she was closer to the ground. 

She touched him. Her hand gently rested weight against his shoulder. Instantly affected, he turned his face further away, but he didn’t recoil from her touch. She waited a moment before she came closer, her little arms wrapping around him. His body shook slightly in her hold. She could feel him crying. 

Even as children, he was a much larger creature than she. All the same, she held on to him. She knew he was strong. He could push her away easily, but he didn’t. 

_“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”_ She murmured quietly against him, and he leaned into her embrace.

He was fitful, and the dream was thin. It drew in close around them, threatening to disperse at any given moment. With each shudder of his shoulders, the ground beneath them almost gave way. She drew comforting circles against his back. It was the same thing her mother did for her when she was hurt or upset. 

Abruptly, the smoke began to depart. It whipped against her hair like wind. He grew less solid in her grasp. Her vision went white, and she felt it. It was a pain beyond anything she could comprehend. 

Sansa woke - inconsolable, with a scream caught in her throat. Her hands clutched the side of her face.

She had been ill - prone to bouts of fever, weakness, pain, and despondency for several weeks afterwards.

“Is he highborn?”

Sansa looked up. Her mind had drifted, and she gave a pleasant smile to make up for her lapse. “Surely he must be a lord.” The girl sitting next to her spoke brightly, sure of herself. Sansa shook her head, smiling absently down at her hands in her lap. “Not a lord. He’s a knight. At least, I believe he is. I’m quite sure.”


	3. moon, obscurity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Arryn has passed. King Robert and his retinue steadily make their way to Winterfell. Sandor ponders over the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more - I'm full of gratitude for everyone who read, commented on, left kudos for, or bookmarked my work. I appreciate all feedback. Thank you!
> 
> I wanted to get this chapter out before the weekend. My classes started up again, so I'll be putting a bit of time into that, but updates should continue more or less as they have so far.
> 
> In the next chapter, they will be arriving in Winterfell. A meeting of sorts will take place. ;)

>   
>  **“I am so hungry for a place I cannot name. Ravenous. Ceaselessly.” - howitzerliterarysociety**  
> 

It was almost midnight. The moon hung heavy overhead. It had been a long day on the Kingsroad, but Sandor had hardly noticed. He had been lost in thought since he first heard word of the future venture. Winterfell grew closer every day, and despite his better judgement, he couldn’t help but wonder.  
Through the years, he had collected all the information about _her_ that he could. He held every new detail against his chest tightly - ever at the mercy of what he was allowed through the haze of his dreams. Yet, as the air around him grew colder with each burdened step, it was not a recent discovery that overwhelmed his thoughts.  
He had known since they were children that she was of noble birth. He was familiar enough with the lowborn to know that she had never belonged to that world. Her regal brow bent finely when she concentrated. Pretty words and courtesies touched her lips with the grace of long hours of practice. She was educated and unmistakably well bred. Once, in the dead of sleep, he had seen her playing the high harp. She wore blue. More often than not, he dreamt of her in blue. Her fingers moved against the strings as they had been taught to. He had watched on, enraptured, and an old, unwelcome desire filled him - unbidden and without warning. He wanted to be a part of the sweet songs she spun. He had risen from sleep with a sharp jolt, sitting up where he lay. After a moment, he had run his hands down his face, letting out a sigh and a murmur of a curse.  
However, it wasn’t her rank alone that stretched tension across his spine.

He knew she was of the north.

Taking a glance up at the sky, eyeing the thick clouds that still only managed to cast a faint shroud over the moon, he drew a deep breath. The closer King Robert and his retinue came to Winterfell, the more the air came to match that of his better dreams. It was the same scent that clung to her skin. The storm and sorrow of hundreds of winters past, the strength of the ancient Kings of Winter, the blood-red sap of the weirwood trees - he could taste it best on the skin over her pulse point. He knew it was in her blood.  
Still, despite his overwhelming feeling that he would find her sooner rather than later, he was not convinced. His hand flexed over the sword on his hip. Sandor couldn’t believe that the world would suddenly decide to show him kindness after all these years. He treated his own silent conjectures with skepticism and scorn. Hope didn’t sit well in him. He felt restless under his armor. He told himself, as he had dozens of times before, that she was a figment of his own mind. It was easier then. No good would come of holding on to a ghost. He had enough proof of that to stay his speculations for now.  
His parents hadn’t been intended. They had not dreamt of each other, yet they had married and reared children all the same. This was not uncommon.

A shrill outburst sounded from inside one of the nearby tents. Harsh words pierced through the quiet. Sandor’s mouth drew a grimace and his jaw tightened briefly. He knew the voice all too well.  
The Prince had been in a foul mood for the duration of the journey, and it seemed that this was unlikely to change anytime in the near future. Sandor had longed for a few hours of silence, yet was unsurprised that he was evidently not meant to have it.

_Little shit needs a good knock over the head to put him to sleep._

Joffrey was a terror. He was spoiled, ruthless, and only getting worse with age - not that it was entirely his fault.

It was no secret that Robert Baratheon did not dream of long, golden locks or heavy, green eyes. Sandor almost gave a sardonic snort at the very idea. He couldn’t imagine what sort of person dreamt of the Queen. He wondered if there was such a person at all.

They said that Joffrey’s intended had died when he was young, and that it had left the boy wrong. They said that the Prince did not dream. Sandor couldn’t even conceive what his life would be like without _her_. The very thought sent a shock of desperation through him. He felt a spark of sympathy for the boy, but it was extinguished as quickly as it had arisen.

Sandor’s grip went firm around the hilt of his sword. He cursed the northern air and the wide, present moon. He felt wretched and ridiculous where he stood, gritting his teeth without reservation.

Then, with her usual grace of timing, a familiar sensation gripped him. He was weak in its grasp. He could feel her dreaming. It had been stronger the past few nights, louder in his mind. It was harder than it had ever been to keep her from pervading his every thought. He knew that if he concentrated he would be able to hear her practically as clearly as he would in sleep. He blocked out the sound of her almost aggressively. He didn’t know if he would be strong enough to continue to do so, but he would go as long as he could on stubbornness alone. It mattered little. Soon, he would fall into bed and subsequently into her arms. He knew his earlier restraint would then be forgotten, and he would press her to him with total abandon.

Not only had the dwindling distance made her more present in his mind, but it had also rendered her more tangible. He had slid his hands up the curve of her thighs, and felt goosebumps rise in the wake of his touch - felt a shaky breath pass through her parted lips. Her voice met his skin as if she truly inhabited the same space. It was frustratingly close to breaching the line between dream and crossing over into reality. Heat coursed through his body at the memory. His resolve crumbled, and her presence easily overcame the now dissipated wall he had placed between them. He had no time to mockingly regard his own resolve before he felt the echoes of her touch on his skin.

The night slipped on agonizingly slow. A sharp wind blew in from the north. Sandor looked on, steeling himself for what was to come despite his doubt. They would reach Winterfell soon enough. He shivered, but not from the cold.


	4. sun, clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visitors arrive in Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone who left kudos, bookmarked, commented, or read my work: Thank you! I adore talking with all of you and hearing your feedback.
> 
> This chapter and the one that is to come after have been stuck in my head for a long while. I'm so happy to have finally gotten them out.
> 
> Next chapter is from Sandor's POV.

>   
>  **"We talked in half-spoken abstractions, clear to us alone." - Anais Nin**   
> 

Sansa was dressed in blue, and her mother had promised to brush her auburn hair to a shine. Catelyn took pleasure in brushing her daughters’ hair. Arya always fought it, but Sansa was always eager. She had been since she was small. It calmed Sansa’s nerves and brought her to a familiar, safe place.

“You’ve been distant these past few days, my love. What is on your mind?”

Sansa’s hands were clasped together in her lap, yet they fidgeted. “It’s just a feeling, really.” Her mother didn’t reply, silently prompting her to elaborate further. “Something - something important is coming, or something important is going to happen.” Sansa’s cheeks ruddied. “It’s just a feeling.” She repeated. 

She didn’t say the words she truly wished to. It was more than a feeling. It wasn’t shapeless or unfamiliar. It came in a form she had always known - broad shouldered and grey-eyed. That day, the growing sensation had flowed from her. It sparked at the ends of her fingertips, searching for purpose. She couldn’t sit still. She couldn’t focus on anything for longer than a few moments before her thoughts drifted once more. 

The night past kept taking up space in her mind. She had risen from sleep flushed and agitated. She had pressed her hands to the side of her face. She tried to sense a difference between the moment and the palpable feeling she had dreamt of. Her hands slid down, gathering at her collarbone. He had kissed her there right as she woke. She had felt the bristle of his facial hair against her skin. Her blue eyes flew to the point of interest. She looked for a mark, an echo, any indication that she had been touched. There was none. Her pale skin stretched fine and unblemished over her collar bone. 

Catelyn set the brush down on the vanity. The sound of it brought Sansa from her reverie. She looked back over her shoulder at her mother, a question in her mirrored gaze. Catelyn paused, smoothing a strand of Sansa’s hair away from her face. 

“I believe -“

She faltered. Sansa grasped her mother’s hand, taking it from the fall of her hair.

Catelyn’s eyes flickered to their joined hands. The only difference in them was the slight sign of wear and age about her knuckles.

“A great many things are about to change.”

Sansa’s auburn brow knitted in reply. Catelyn gently squeezed her daughter’s hand. “We must be ready for it.”

Sansa nodded, though she was unsure what exactly her mother was referring to.

A slight sadness came about Catelyn’s expression. It was brief, but Sansa caught it none the less. Her mother’s free hand came to lightly cup her cheek. Sansa leaned into the touch. 

 

-

 

They were arranged before the castle gates, ready to welcome the visitors. 

Anticipation was tangible in the air, and Sansa was not an exception among them. She stood, taut - her spine as straight as her father’s greatsword. She was more still than she had been all day. She did not sway or fidget. She was a statue who’s sunset tresses blew about her face in the slight breeze. Her mind drifted back to the vale that had briefly rested over her mother’s features during their earlier conversation, yet the moment the riders began pouring in through the castle gates, all thought stilled and vanished. 

Sansa felt as if the breath had been knocked from her body. Her lips parted, and she no longer felt the breeze. She searched for _him_ among the crowd. She knew he was there, just as she knew her name or the words of her House. Her gaze was frantic for the few moments that seemed to her a lifetime. She barely saw the gold banners. Her eyes briefly passed over the golden headed beauty that could have only been Ser Jaime Lannister, rejecting him in that moment. He was not who she was looking for. She did the same with the tall boy by his side who she knew must have been the Prince, and the blonde little man she knew to be Tyrion Lannister without a doubt.

She gave each of them only a glance, yet her gaze was caught and kept by the dark figure wearing a helm in the shape of a hound who rode with them. It felt to her that he was the most natural sight in the world, and yet a heavy blush bloomed against her face. She felt her flush spread to her chest, and she knew herself to be completely vulnerable in that moment. She didn’t need to see his face to know it was him. His shape and the way that he moved was embedded in her memory. A thought subsequently came to her. She would know him even if she had never dreamt of him in her life. A bright, warm sensation in her chest spread and pulled her to him, yet she stayed still, as if she were rooted to the spot. 

Her chest heaved with a sharp breath. She intimately felt the light of the sun though it was hidden by a blanket of cloud.

 _“What’s the matter with you?”_ The acute, hushed question came from her sister, Arya, who stood at her side.

Sansa didn’t hear her. The sound of her heartbeat drowned out all else. She wore a shining grin.

She wished he would remove his helm. She wished this so desperately that it almost tore her apart. 

The riders began to dismount. The Queen and her younger children walked in through the castle gates, as the carriage they had traveled in was too large to fit through. It took all of Sansa’s strength to give each of them a polite look before her eyes inevitably found him again. His figure was even more powerful than she had known in sleep. His dark armor was severe. He truly was as fierce as she had said.

Courtesy had never been something she struggled with, yet the next few minutes were agony. 

The space in her mind where he rested seemed no different from her own presence within her. She felt him. He burned under her attention - she quivered like a flame.


	5. revolve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A feast takes place in the Great Hall to celebrate the arrival of the guests. Sandor doesn't stay for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for your support! You have made this such a lovely experience. This is my first story on here, but I know now that it will not be the last. :)
> 
> I didn't want to take too long with this chapter. I'm eager to further the story.

 

>   
>  **"I am again devouring myself." - Anais Nin**

The Great Hall of Winterfell was filled right to the brim. The fire roared far from where Sandor sat in silence, partially hidden in shadow. No one spoke to him, and he was glad of it. He didn’t have it in him to function beyond the very basics - sitting, standing, walking, breathing.

 _She_ had been there. He had _seen_ her.

He could think of nothing else.

At the time, he had been having a difficult time believing his own eyes. She wore blue, just as he always dreamt she would. Her cloak billowed over her body, disguising her shape, but he knew her form better than his own. It didn’t matter how many times he’d seen her in his mind or felt her presence, she still took his breath away. Her hair danced in the breeze, framing her face. His will submitted to her without request. He would die for her - here and now if need be, a hundred different times in a hundred different ways. This is what he thought of. He was composed of reverence.

  
To him it seemed she was the only person standing before the castle gates. The notion that it was him she was waiting for briefly passed through his mind, though he rejected this fancy as quickly as it had come. She was flushed and fervent. He could have sworn that her bright, azure gaze was fixed on him, but he was just as convinced that his mind was playing tricks on him. Who’s attention would he hold in the shadow of Jaime Lannister? The very idea was comical. Yet, he so wanted it to be true. He was so full of longing that he was rendered dumbstruck. If he had the presence of mind, he would have leapt from his mount, taken the few heavy strides to her side, and swept her up in his grasp. If anything, he only wanted to be able to look at her a few minutes more.

  
The riders began to dismount, so he did as well - delayed and shaky. He felt weak, vaguely aware that his knees could very well give out beneath him. They thankfully did not. He desperately searched for stability, something to hold on to. He found nothing. He felt bare in her vicinity.

It all passed in the blink of an eye, and she was lead away.

She had looked back. He remembered this clearly.

The distance felt like a personal attack now more than ever.

He struggled with himself in the resounding clamor. There was no point in being there if she was somewhere else. He stood, bent on searching for her. Just as he began to move from his place, he was stilled as Lord Eddard Stark made his entrance. It seemed he brought up the head of a procession, as he had the Queen on his arm and Sandor could make out the figures of the King and Lady Stark trailing them. Sandor stayed where he was. He was hidden, but he had a good view all the same.

  
In Lord Stark, Sandor could discern nothing of his auburn-haired daughter, except perhaps the slight softness about his mouth. However, Sandor recognized the intensity of the man’s grey eyes. It was a look he had seen come over her features before. It was a rare sight, but one he was familiar with all the same. Lord Stark escorted the Queen to her seat.

  
Sandor’s attention was then caught by Lady Stark. Her daughter definitely had her look - long auburn hair and wide blue eyes. Lady Stark was less beautiful than her daughter, but lovely all the same. He then reasoned he wasn’t one to say so, biased as he was. The thought amused him.

The smallest Stark child followed. The boy couldn’t have been older three. A faint smile found Sandor as the little Lord had to be encouraged forward by those who watched on.

Next came the oldest of the Stark boys with the Princess on his arm. The boy wore a grin that seemed to swallow up his features. The girl on his arm gave him a coy smile.

  
The youngest daughter came next, dragging along Prince Tommen. She was dark-haired, with the solemn face of her father.  
The rest of the procession may very well have never existed as the subject of Sandor’s idolatry made her entrance. She was then dressed in the colors of her house, but it made no difference. She caught the light. Her eyes wandered, as if she were searching for something. Her expression held a lightness that he favored above all else.

  
Prince Joffrey stood tall with her on his arm. Together they looked the picture of regality - what one would think of when asked to imagine a future King and Queen. This realization woke an anger in Sandor that made short work of burning through him. Jealousy cut him like a knife. He was incredibly vulnerable to the hopelessness that gathered easily at the base of his throat - as if it had been there all along. The Prince wore an expression of disdain, barely giving the the beauty by his side a glance. Sandor sat back down a bit too aggressively.

He spent the rest of his time at the feast caught violently between despondency and devotion. He didn’t eat or drink. He watched her. His gaze rarely departed. She seemed slightly absent. A few girls that must have been her friends spoke to her with exuberance. Though they did not notice, he could tell that she was feigning interest. The night dragged on until, finding her moment, she slipped away. Sandor watched with a hint of surprise as she silently exited the Great Hall. He seemed to be the only one who saw. He stood, and followed her without the degree of grace she carried, yet he also went unnoticed among the crowd.

The cold was a shock to the system. However, he barely had time to register it before a hand found his. Warmth flooded through him and his gaze fell to their joined hands. The point where they made contact may very well have been the only thing that kept him tied to the world. His thumb eased slowly over her smooth skin. He had to remind himself that this wasn’t a dream. He finally looked up to meet her gaze. She was hidden in the dark by the wide wooden doors. Her eyes shone. He could make out her features with as much clarity as he had in the well-lit hall. She smiled, genuine and intimate. He made to speak, though he himself was unsure of what he was about to say. She stilled the words in his throat with a gesture. She softly pressed her finger to her mouth. A sign to stay silent. He nodded in response.

  
Sandor heard laughter not far away - laughter that didn’t arise from the Great Hall. She swiftly looked in the direction of its source. In almost the same instance, she began leading him away by the hand.

  
He could barely comprehend what was occurring, and at the same time he felt more present than he ever had. The sharp winter air did little to clear the warm haze from his mind. He hadn’t had a single drink though he felt intoxication coiling in his chest.

  
It didn’t seem like too long before they were inside again, away from the cold. She paused in her step every now and then to allow them to continue to pass unnoticed. There were several groups celebrating on their own here and there - friends and lovers alike. Sandor reasoned that even if they should be spotted, the onlooker would most likely be too drunk to care.

  
They then stood before a fine wooden door. They had arrived without his notice. She opened the door, motioning for him to enter before she followed. Only then did she let go of his hand. Sandor felt the absence of her touch closely. She shut the door behind her, leaning against it as she looked to him.  
Sandor realized she had brought him to her chambers. She gave him another smile. It was a secret kind of smile - only meant for him. The room carried her scent. It filled him up to the brim and left no room for his senses.

“I was looking for you.” She said this softly. Her voice sent him further into disarray. Her cheeks were blooming with flush. She shivered.

He took a step forward, and his hands found her waist. Her breath caught and her gaze didn’t falter. He basked under her attention, desperate to keep it for as long as he could.

He could hear her heart beating rapidly in her chest. She briefly bit her bottom lip, and all cognitive thought went completely to ruin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gee ;) I wonder ;) what they're gonna ;) get up to ;) next chapter ;)


	6. collide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor meet properly for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to take my time with this chapter, as its nature is very delicate. The events of this story are already planned out, though the way that they unfold are completely up to how everything flows in the moment that I'm writing it. This chapter is pivotal. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has shown me support in any way!! Please know that I appreciate it all immensely. <3

 

>   
>  **“Sometimes / stars align, / sometimes / they collide.” - Nav K**

Caught between Sandor and the door, Sansa could think of no better place to be. Her breath came more shallowly than normal. Every time she inhaled she felt the slight pressure of his grasp on her waist. She kept her eyes fixed on his face, noticing his heady gaze linger over her parted lips.

  
The thrill of their escape still hummed pleasantly about her limbs. The tension in the air was palpable - physical. She was brave and brazen in the low light. Her eyes fell to his mouth, making sure he noticed before meeting his gaze once more. She rose slightly, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet. This was all the encouragement he needed.

  
He leaned down, his lips meeting hers with a frustrating amount of reservation. She met him with a sense of necessity. She had kissed him hundreds of times, yet this was truly the first. Though there were few things they were more familiar with in the world, it was altogether new to them both, and they fumbled here and there in their earnestness.

  
Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck, bringing herself flush against his chest. In the same instant, she felt the bite of the sharp winter air, and she shrunk back slightly with a small gasp.

  
“What is it?” He spoke quietly, and she saw a flash of panic in his features. She had a sense that he had been half expecting her to recoil all along. She became aware that he was supporting much of her weight with his hold on her waist, helping her stay level with him even as he leaned down. She rested her forehead against his.

  
“Your armor is cold.” She murmured in the small space they shared, her hold on him now loose. She faintly brushed her fingers through his dark hair, aiming to put him at ease. She was almost reluctant to answer, as the mere idea of being apart even for a moment earned her immense dislike.

She noticed his shoulders relax, understanding finding his expression. He released his grip on her, gently letting her down. He straightened up, taking a step back as he began to remove his armor. She watched him for a moment with ever renewed fondness before she came to his side, assisting him where she could. She felt his gaze on her throughout the endeavor but she did not look up. A smile rested sweetly over her mouth. She could not stop smiling, her elation was so substantial.

  
They orbited about each other - every movement part of some long awaited process. In dreams they had never had to partake in obligatory, simple tasks such as undressing, and it only added to the sense of actuality that they had both craved all along. With his armor and layers required to shield him from the cold discarded, his boots removed and resting to the wayside, he stood only in his undershirt and loose breeches. She came before him, resting her hands against his chest, which rose and fell more easily under her touch. Her hands slid up to rest on his broad shoulders, exploring the expanse of them before sliding down his arms. Sansa’s thoughts drifted over his solidly built figure, the power she knew he possessed. Her gaze followed her hands until they reached his own. She guided his hands to rest against her waist once more. He gave a breath of a smile that almost contained the nature of a smirk at the gesture. He went a step further without warning. His arms encircled her, lifting her from the ground in one smooth motion.

  
She gave a small sound of surprise, a laugh caught between her teeth. Her arms wrapped around his neck easily. Sansa kissed him with a smile still ghosting across the corners of her mouth. He kept one arm wrapped around her waist, supporting her, while the other reached down to hike up her skirt, allowing her to wrap her legs around him. She used this new leverage to only pull him tighter against her. Sansa gave a soft sigh at the closeness, though it was not nearly enough. He walked, maneuvering them to the bed without breaking the kiss. He let her down against the soft furs, following her. It was not without a hint of clumsiness, though neither of them noticed or cared in the slightest.

He placed several kisses down the length of her neck that sung with unspoken devotion, lingering over the places he knew would gain a fervent response. The bristle of his facial hair dragged against her sensitive skin, sending her deeper into the haze of want that had begun settling over her. He gently nipped the skin over her pulse point, causing her to cling to him tighter, another noise loosened from her throat. He made his way down to her collarbone, encouraged by the slight pull of her hands in his hair. The feel of his mouth and the overwhelming security she experienced with the length of his body pressed flush over her drove words to fall from her lips.

  
“Your name.” She half-begged, “Please. Tell me your name.”

  
He paused, rising to meet her gaze. He was full of caution - always instinctively holding back, even with her. She brushed the hair from his face, affection gathered in her fingertips. After a moment, he replied.

  
“Sandor.” He was still, waiting for her reaction.

  
A smile broke out over her face, full, reflecting the pure joy that leapt through her body. “Sandor.” She repeated, her tone holding wonder within it. A pleased, slightly desperate sound rumbled deep in his chest, and he caught her in an ardent kiss, bracing himself over her with his forearms resting parallel on either side of her head.

  
“Say it again, little bird.” He murmured between kisses, his request almost a plead. She repeated his name in the form of a gasp after he nipped at her bottom lip.

_Little bird … it’s fitting. At the moment, taking flight doesn’t seem so impossible._

Sandor gently began guiding her so her legs were no longer wrapped around his hips. She made a sound of protest, confused, and not at all favoring the idea of being separated. He gave a deep, warm chuckle at her resistance to being untangled from him. “Don’t fret.” He pressed a few kisses along the line of her jaw, soothing her easily. He shifted his weight to primarily rest on the bed by her side as he began to pull at the lacing of her gown. Realizing his intent, she reached down to help him, desiring that the process should go as quickly as possible. With the lacing finally unfastened, Sansa began to shed the fur-lined gown. He helped her undress, though his hands moved vacantly. His focus was fixed on her, entranced as the fabric fell from about her shoulders - following her movement as her arms came free one at a time.

  
“You haven’t told me your name.”

  
His voice was almost small. Sansa paused, her gown gathered loosely about her waist. Her shift was sheer, and the shape of her drew breath - alive under the fabric. She rose to a sitting position and he followed suit before her, always facing her.

  
“You haven’t asked me for my name, _Sandor_.” Her hand idly found his chest, gently tugging on the fabric that thinly concealed his skin. There was a playful lightness to her expression.

  
A frustrated, exasperated sound faintly drew from him. He wrapped an arm about her torso, lifting her as he tugged the gown away completely. He pulled her on to his lap, letting his grasp fall to rest over her hips, his hands gathering in the fabric of her shift.

  
“Put me out of my misery, little bird. What is your name?” He whispered these words fervidly into the fall of her hair, near her ear. The low drag of his voice sent heat through her - the residual flames converging low in her abdomen. Her hand came to rest at the nape of his neck, fingers lacing through the dark strands of his hair, keeping him where he was. Her other hand splayed against his chest, caught between their bodies.

  
“Sansa.” She felt almost shy to give the simple confession of her name, her voice coming out as nothing but a whisper.

  
His heartbeat picked up its pace under her hand.

  
“Sansa.” His hands slipped up under her shift, splaying out against the bare skin of her back. She arched in the wake of his touch, her eyes slipping closed at the sound of her name bending over his lips. With every shift of her body, she was pressed tighter against him. She felt the length of his hardness through the fabric that separated them, the gentleness and fluidity in the way he held her, despite the strength he possessed. Memories flooded her mind. He had made love to her like this before - slow and incandescent. A particular day came to mind. It had been long and trying. Her spirits were low and all but diminished, yet she had still tried to fake a smile. He had kissed the artifice from her lips that night, telling her she needn’t pretend for him - not then, not ever. He had whispered reassurance as they joined together - sweet, encouraging words. He had called her dearest and love so quietly that she may have easily missed it if she hadn’t been intently hanging on every word. He had held her gaze as he brought her to the edge, so near the white heat that she could barely breathe. She had felt in that moment that his unwavering hold on her was the only thing keeping her from dissolving entirely. He kissed her forehead as she found release. He was true - always.

Sansa was moved, and she clung to him tighter, burying her face in the crook of his neck.

_Stay. Please stay._

Her silent plead moved between them, she knew he felt it. She trembled. His hands moved from her, coming away from under her shift. He grasped each of her hands, bringing them to him, leaning back so he could see her face. He kissed both of her wrists. “What’s wrong?” She laced their fingers together and his grey eyes searched her face. She began to softly crumble under his gaze. “It’s silly - but I am just realizing. This isn’t another dream. You’re here. You’re really here.” Surprise colored his features, concern touched his brow. Sansa became aware that she was crying, tears springing from her eyes. He let go of her hands, taking her face in his grasp. He kissed her cheeks, her brow, silencing a quiet sob with the press of his mouth against hers. “Don’t cry, little bird.” He whispered. She faintly shook her head, only the suggestion of a movement. “I’m just happy. I promise. I’m so happy.” She felt a bit ridiculous and her gaze fell, her cheeks reddening. She tugged at the fabric of his shirt. He understood her intent this time, and he reached back, removing his undershirt in one swift movement. She began to trace the scars that lay across his now bare torso. Some of them were quite new in comparison to the old, faded ones that were then only a faint white line. Sansa knew each of them well. She had felt every last one of them intimately from the moment of their birth.

  
She was lost in the past for a few moments. When she returned, she looked up, and found that his gaze was caught on a lock of her hair he had in his grasp. A surge of love overcame her, and she kissed him with all the enthusiasm that she felt. She had taken him by surprise, and he was stiff at first, yet it was not more than a moment before he reciprocated with earnestness. She pulled away enough to whisper in his ear. “I’m so happy.” She repeated.

  
Sansa thought of her parents. Ned and Catelyn were intended - they too, had always dreamt of each other. They were of the luckiest, as they had been able to marry. Sansa wished with all her heart that their fate could be her own. “I cannot wait to tell my mother and father. They will be so pleased that I have found you.” She whispered this - all the hope she carried for the future held in each word.

  
Sandor stiffened in her embrace. He did not speak for a long pause. “Is that a jest, girl?” His voice struck her, as it sounded as if it had come from an entirely different person. Her brow was touched with confusion, yet she remained in high spirits. “Of course not. What do you mean?” As she spoke, she leaned back to look at him, finding that the grey of his eyes had hardened in a way altogether foreign to her.

  
“It’s cruel of you to speak that fancy as if it were the truth.” His reply was curt, and she wavered drastically in disposition, her eyes full of concern and bewilderment.

“It is the truth! My parents -“

“Lord Stark no doubt wishes to wed you off to some highborn prick. He wouldn’t give you away to a dog with a ruin for a face.” His voice was mocking and cruel, and she was hurt, but too shocked to know it in the moment. He wasn’t looking at her when he spoke, and this almost affected her more than his words. She tried to take his face in her hands, but he brushed her touch away. He had done this gently, but it did nothing to ease the blow of the gesture.

“That is ridiculous.” Her words were sincere, firm, though her upset was clear. “Why are you saying this?” Her voice trembled with the question.

“It’s only the truth, girl.” His words were flat and lifeless. Sansa felt something rise in her, and she spoke with strength. “My name is Sansa. Look at me, please.”

He met her eyes finally, yet she found no comfort in it.

“Deep down, you’d prefer a Lord or a _Prince_ , wouldn’t you?”

She was pierced through, and she could not speak. She could hardly believe her own senses, and would doubt that she had heard him right, if it were not for the coldness of his expression. He untangled himself from her, not ungently, setting her down on the bed before he rose.

He began to dress, pulling his shirt over his head once more. He collected each article he had discarded, returning them to their place as best he could. She watched him, her breath coming shallowly, tears threatening to spill.

“Please don’t go.” It was a breath of a request, but she knew he heard it all the same. There was a catch in his movement, a tremor. He fastened his boots on, and passed through the door of her chambers without so much as a glance in her direction.


	7. return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is visited twice - once with unpleasant news and once more with a pleasant resolution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An enormous thank you to everyone who has shown support for this story in any way. You are wonderful and I appreciate it beyond words. 
> 
> School swept me up a bit, but now this chapter is ready to be published. I'm sorry for the wait, as it was longer than usual. 
> 
> This is another chapter from Sansa's POV.

> **"When I thought I was screaming, I was barely murmuring." - Le Petit Soldat (1963)**

Sansa slept fitfully. She rested too close to consciousness for peace. Frequently, her hands would reach out across the mattress and find only empty air. She was not languid. She held agitation in her limbs, curled in on herself over the heavy furs she could not gather the motivation to crawl under. The silence was broken every now and then by a murmur that held the likeness of Sandor’s name. Not a single word came in reply - not even a feeling of acknowledgment. She knew he wasn’t sleeping. There was no comfort for her in his silence. The neglect was entirely new. Sansa felt _alone_.

In dreaming, her footsteps found little purchase. The ground wavered beneath her. She chased his shadow continuously. It was a cold dream. Light was sparse. A distinct sense of danger gripped her, and she thought she saw a beast out of the corner of her eye. She tensed and whirled around to meet it face on, but found that the golden creature was only another shadow.

The morning was no friend to Sansa when it came. Her hair fell about her like a curtain. She hid behind it, finding comfort where she could. When a servant came in to dress her, she let them - silent and obedient. She politely declined the call to breakfast, requesting that her meal be brought to her chambers, as she wasn’t feeling very well that morning.  
Even as she had a fire lit in the fireplace, Sansa only felt a faint, unsatisfying, superficial brush of heat against her skin. She sat by the fire, not too closely, and passed the time with her needle work. Yet, nothing came out as neat as she may have wished, as fine as she knew she was capable of. She felt small, and nothing she held had any weight to it. The room was just an impression of its familiar space. The air was false in nature. Each hour sent her further into a haze.

At some point, her mother came to speak with her. Catelyn inquired after her health, and Sansa answered accordingly.

“I think I’m just a bit faint from all the excitement. I’m sure I’ll be better in the morning.” She gave the most reassuring smile she could manage. Catelyn nodded, coming to her side. Sansa hardly noticed the hesitation in her mother’s expression.

“Sansa, dearest, King Robert has made your father a proposition.” Sansa’s eyes dropped back to her work. She was already aware of the true purpose of the King’s visit. It hadn’t been a difficult conclusion to come to.

“Do you think he will accept?”

Catelyn stilled. “Your father would never force you into anything. He wishes to know what you think of the match.” Sansa looked back up to meet her mother’s gaze, confusion defining her features.

“The match?”

“The King has proposed a betrothal between you and Prince Joffrey.”

“ _Prince Joffrey?_ ”

Sansa’s gaze dropped, yet her eyes didn’t focus. She had to concentrate to bring up a memory of the tall, golden haired boy from the day before. There was almost a familiar coldness to him. Repulsion rose in her.

“But he is not - “

She was silenced by the touch of her mother’s hand.

“I know he’s not your intended, but, dearest,” Catelyn paused, and the quiet was almost too heavy to bear. “Your father and I were fortunate to have found each other. It’s difficult to consider, but - Sansa, listen to me.”

Sansa was in a state of chaos. Her gaze didn’t fall anywhere for too long. She felt as if she were at the edge of a great precipice. She could almost feel the wind whipping at her hair. Distress wrapped around her tightly and made her breath come shallow, yet all was held static under her mother’s suddenly intense attention. Catelyn held her daughter’s gaze with little room for her mind to wander.

“You must try to accept the reality of the situation, my love. There is a very real chance that you may never find him - this knight of yours. This… offer that has been presented to you, it is a significant opportunity. I want you to promise me,” Sansa was frail under her mother’s words. Catelyn shifted slightly, preparing to speak.

“I want you to promise me, Sansa, that you will consider it.”

Sansa wanted to cry. She wanted to fight. Future despair and anguish took on a face with hard, green eyes - stagnant as if they could shatter. Sansa didn't know the Prince, but it didn't matter. It was his foreignness that repelled her.

She knew that her mother did not know what exactly she was asking of her. Yet, she also knew that her mother only wanted what was best for her. Sansa gave a slight nod, softening her features as best she could. “I promise.” Her words were fragile and may have broken someplace in the air between them.  
Catelyn left shortly after. Sansa sat, gazing into the fire. Her complexion had taken a pallidness, and her hands were unsteady. To consider what she had promised to consider was harrowing enough on its own, but in addition, Sandor was still isolating the both of them. Her attempts to reach him, that had once held power, were now weak. She didn’t have much to fight with anymore. The fire abruptly became more fearsome, and she shrunk away.

Sansa undressed down to her shift and stockings before she crawled into bed, clutching at the furs that usually served to warm her, yet finding no relief from the cold. She lay for hours, hugging her knees to her chest. Even as the fire burnt out into a few dying embers and night fell quick and heavy, her mind only became more agitated.

Suddenly, she grew tense, and sat up in bed, facing the door. The door to her chambers opened, and Sandor’s figure became known to her. He stood in his undershirt and breeches, his dark hair mussed as if he had left his bed to find her. As the door closed behind him, Sansa leapt from her bed, tears already welling up in her eyes and fervent words shaking from her lips. “Sandor! Where were you? I haven’t -“ Her words were stilled as she reached him and he caught her in his grasp, holding her immobilized, arms-length away. Her auburn brow drew, and she struggled to breach the distance, yet he held her fast, his gaze lost to her.  
Even as she felt his touch on her upper arms, she was freezing. She looked to the place in her mind where he rested and found that he was still shutting her out. A quiet, frustrated sound left her throat, and she gave a feeble last attempt to cross the distance. Tears fell down her cheeks. “Let me in.” It was merely a whisper, yet it had her heart in it. “Sandor, let me in, please.” She realized he was trembling, and there was a weakness to him that she marked as abnormal. The space seemed as if it were closing in on her. She was suffocating, and she couldn't reach him.  
Sansa knew he was feeling as faint as she was, and that the separation was affecting him just as much. Something hard rose in her, and she spoke with surprising strength. “You’re afraid.” Her words were almost sharp.

“I’m not afraid.” It was the first time he had spoken to her since the night before, and it was a pitiful sound. Exhaustion and anguish colored his speech.

“Yes you are! You’re afraid that I won’t choose you! You’re afraid that I don’t _want_ you. But how -“ Her voice broke, and she took a breath. “ _How could you think that of me_?” There was grief held in her. It was her hurt, her sincerity that began to chip away at the wall separating them. The air between their bodies quivered. She pressed on. “Have I ever been inconstant?” Memories flooded through her. There had never been a time when they hadn’t been there for each other. She began to feel him reflecting her once more, and it struck her with longing. She wavered in her place, but she centered herself as best she could before she spoke next.

“Tell me what it is I’ve done to make you doubt me.”

He shook his head, and his gentle, yet firm grip on her fell. She took a few small steps towards him, and the moment she pressed her hands against his chest, warmth began to bloom between them. A desperate sigh left her that she thought may have also been his. His arms found her waist, lifting her in his surging embrace. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling herself as close as she could. In that moment, they could have almost been children again, holding on to each other through the storm.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered brokenly into her hair. “I’m so sorry.”

They were caught in a tight hold for what felt like eternity before he slowly let her down. She began to lead him to the bed, as the both of them were almost too weary to speak. He unfastened his boots before he joined her under the furs.

They faced each other in the dark. She brushed a few strands of hair away from his face. His hand rested on the curve of her waist. “It was so cold.” She whispered this even as she felt herself drifting into sleep. “It was the same for me.” She felt him place a kiss into her hair. They slipped into the familiar space they shared as if they had never been apart. “Please - never again.” Her words drifted, yet still held their meaning. She curled into the warmth of him, her grip unrelenting even so close to the white abyss.

“I swear. Never again. I wouldn’t be able to bear it.” He also sounded as if he were fighting sleep, and a faint smile touched her lips at the low, cloudy tone of his voice. There was more she wished to say, yet sleep took her easily as he held her.

The sound of his heart beat was steady in her dreams - a reassuring drum that soothed her irrevocably.


	8. embrace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa have a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't sleep, so I typed this chapter out. This is a short, yet hopefully sweet update. If you guys didn't know this already - I love love. More plot-ish stuff to take place next chapter.
> 
> I'm always overwhelmed by any and all feedback I receive for my work. I can't express how much I appreciate it enough. I started this story with only the bare bones of a plot, and it has shaped itself as it has progressed. I've always been in love with the soulmates trope, and had never come across it for these two in my late nights of reading. I'm so happy I decided to write this story - not just because of the joy I've found in doing it, but also because of all of you. 
> 
> Thank you!

> **“Doesn’t that astonish you. / You did want me. / Say it again.” - Gertrude Stein**

 

Sandor lingered. He remembered. He drifted.

The day before had been torment. Regret and shame had shrouded heavy over him. She had been there - _Sansa_. She had brought him to her chambers, undressed him, kissed him and smiled as she did it, wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. She had told him she was happy, and he had believed her. She had been soft and eager in his lap. Her clear, blue eyes hadn’t held a grain of insincerity. Then, at the slightest mention of the future, of the opinion of Lord and Lady Stark, he had treated her harshly. He had run with his tail between his legs. His own cowardice festered bitterly in his chest.  
He had grit his teeth and shut her out. He wouldn’t have been able to withstand the sound of her calling his name. Minutes passed like hours. The sunlight was thin and tinny. Vibrancy was lost on him. Not even the wind chilled him like her absence.  
When his strength finally dwindled, she had uttered the truth without reservation.

_“You’re afraid.”_

He had denied it. He was small before her. She was strong even when she wavered - even when her tears fell fast and broke her voice.  
To hurt her felt like the most significant sin he could ever commit, and he couldn’t push her away any longer. Whether it was weakness or strength that finally erased the wall between them, he didn’t know. In the moment, he didn’t care.

They drew breath in tandem. The heat swelled and blossomed. Contentment clung to their skin. He rested somewhere where he couldn’t tell the difference between them. 

Sandor was brought away from his reverie as Sansa tugged at his shirt. He had always loved her supple, deft hands. She had long fingers, and there was a dusting of light freckles against her knuckles.  
“Don’t go.” Her pink lips stirred ever so slightly with the request. He shifted, bringing her closer even as he lazily shook his head. “Have to, little bird. It’s morning.” 

She eased up the mattress until she was level with him, her hands smoothing down his chest. He couldn’t take his eyes off her mouth. The faintest of smiles passed over her features. She pressed herself against him with intention. “Not yet.” She kissed him slowly, and he was subservient to her will. All reason escaped him.

Sansa belonged in the pale, sharp fog right before sunrise. She glowed in the grey. She was otherworldly, and he almost feared her power. She was a possessive creature. In the moment, their previous separation was all but forgotten and only lived on in the fierceness of her hold on him, in the intensity of her touch.  
He aimed to soothe, running his hand through her hair, stilling any agitation she held in her. She always grew calmer when he brushed his hands through her hair. “Sansa, I’m not going away again. Not really.” Shame rose in him. He was the cause of her unrest. He knew she was afraid that if he left, he wouldn’t come back again.  
She rested her forehead against his. “I know.” She was sincere, yet not completely placated. He couldn’t stand the unrest in her voice. 

He shifted, paying attention to the skin of her neck with enthusiasm, his hands grasping her shift, hiking it up. A faint sound of appreciation escaped her, and her head tilted back without thought, giving him room. Her body twisted slightly under the sheer fabric of her shift. He smirked. “This shift suits you better than those godsforesaken gowns. Just wear this from now on.” She laughed prettily at that, her fingers threading through the strands of his hair. “Impropriety aside, it’s too cold.” She drew closer, seeking his touch.  
He gave a brief, low hum in acknowledgement. His hand slipped under her smallclothes, finding the spot he was after with little difficulty. “It’s warm enough here.” There was a smile in his tone.  
A gasp left her at his touch, her back arching, her hands faltering in their grasp. She let her legs fall open wider. Her chest shuddered as she exhaled, and her hips rolled rhythmically. The small details of her unraveling drove him mad. Every few seconds he coaxed a small, heated sound from her, and the soft, pleading resonance was enough to make him breathless and yearning for her on its own. She touched his face, and he felt love in the gesture. She made to speak, and he knew she meant to say it aloud. He covered her mouth with his own to catch the words before they met open air. There was passion and something deeper in every smooth brush of their lips. It was enough for the moment.

Without warning, a feeling took hold of him. He looked up, breaking the kiss and stilling his movement. The room bent and seemed to dissolve. It took him a moment to realize Sansa was speaking. “…fading again.” She pulled herself to him, whispering in his ear. “Sandor, the godswood - I’ll be waiting for you in the godswood.” She was muffled, but he understood. The fire died.

Sandor woke alone.


	9. see

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor meet in the godswood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, an enormous thank you to everyone who has supported this story. I appreciate any and all feedback.
> 
> I'm sorry I missed Valentine's Day, but let's be real here - every day is Valentine's Day for me. Whoop. To quote my own tags: stay tuned, folks, for your regularly scheduled mush. Let my kids be happy.
> 
> This is Sansa's POV.

>   
>  **“I dream of a life where I need no longer to dream.” - Zaheen R**  
> 

Sansa waited, feeling as if she were in the middle of a crowd though there was no one in sight. The trees loomed over her with both protective and eerie grace. She was not unsettled. She felt a part of the godswood, while simultaneously feeling inferior and ignorant in the eyes of the heart tree. She stood before it, praying, dreaming. Sansa was humble in its gaze.

The sun had barely begun to rise. It was a cold, slow morning. The fog drew thick and close to the ground. It waved about her when she moved, parting and twirling in the air. Her hair hung loose down her back. It stuck out amongst the snow and the fog like an open wound. The passing seconds prayed on her fear. She wished with all her being that he would come. That morning, he had faded so quickly in her arms that she had almost felt abandoned.

The air clung tight to her skin. She recounted his prior reaction to the mention of her mother and father - to the future. Anxiety held space in her throat and sent its roots down into her chest.

Sansa sensed Sandor’s presence before she heard or saw him. She turned, a smile bursting out across her features without thought. She came to him quickly, giving a slight jump as to wrap her arms around his neck in an embrace - a flurry of blue fabric and loose auburn tresses. “I’m so glad to see you.” He stood as still and solid as an oak tree. She embraced the cold. The hard press of his armor didn’t deter her. He instinctively brought his arms about her, supporting her weight, exhaling into the fall of her hair. “ _Gods_ , Sansa. Almost thought you were a spirit.” He was breathless in tone. She gave a small sound that resembled a laugh, pulling away enough to look into his face. “Did you think I meant to still your heart and take you away?” She tilted her head to the side. There were flecks of snow caught in his dark hair. His eyes grew soft. “I wouldn’t put it past you, little bird.” He spoke quietly. She wasn’t sure who moved first, but they kissed, and the warmth of it almost burned her. He pulled away abruptly like he was hurt by it, and his gaze was downcast. Silence stretched out between them with heavy limbs. She felt that if she didn’t hear his voice she might not live another moment.

Having been only their second real encounter, Sansa was still starved of his attention - the real, physical contact that she had dreamt of for as long as she could remember. Even the night before, dreaming in such close vicinity of each other where his glance or touch felt almost exactly like reality, she knew it was just a dream. Here, the stillness was hard enough to hurt her. His hold around her waist shocked her in small ways. One of her hands came to rest on his shoulder, the other briefly caught the scarred side of his face, a gentle urge for him to return to her. His eyes were on her again, and it was a very great victory.

“Are you alright?” There was almost a hint of urgency in her tone.

“The other night - in your chambers,” He began, but he was impeded by a shake of her head. “It’s in the past. It doesn’t matter.” She half-pleaded, speaking what she wished to be true. His jaw tightened.

“It _does_ matter. Listen… I don’t have the pretty words for you that I should, but I have something I need to say. I have to try.” It was a clipped statement. There was strain in him. She was rendered speechless, and she awaited his next words. Tension held tight against their shoulders.

“I act as if the Gods have never favored me, but I have never truly believed that. No matter what I’ve faced, _I have had you_. I have you _now_. Here.” His grasp on her tightened slightly. She was infinitely fond of him as the sun rose. A breeze came and weaved through the strands of his hair. She understood everything he spoke, and everything he didn’t.

He continued. “I know you’re better than me. I know I don’t deserve you.”

She stilled any further word with a quickness that almost shook him. “That’s not-“

“Please, little bird. Let me speak.” He spoke so earnestly that she couldn’t protest.

“I don’t pretend to make sense of this. I may never understand it, but I won’t allow myself to fuck this up. Sansa, would you - I’m asking if - _Seven Hells_ , anything is easier than this.” He took an exasperated breath, glancing down before speaking. “Would you marry me, little bird?”  
A moment of stunned silence passed before an exuberant laugh broke out from her throat. It was a joyful note, full of amazement. The doubt in his words had broken her heart all over again, but the question itself had mended every shattered thing in the world. All the tension in her body melted away.

“Of course! Sandor, you don’t even have to ask!” She embraced him closely, burying her face into the crook of his neck. He huffed out a sound of disbelief. One of his hands gathered in the strands of her hair.

Sansa felt the gaze of the heart tree intimately. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. She remembered one of the teachings from her youth.

_In the eyes of the Old Gods, we have been wed since birth._

“I love you.” She whispered. The three words, with all their weight, fell lightly against his skin, but were great and expansive in the open air. He stilled. His breath was alike to a shudder in nature. “ _Gods_.” There was a pause. “I love you. I love you too fucking much for any good to come of it.”  
Sansa felt as if her body was too small to contain her contentedness, her relief, her adoration. His words were so fitting his nature that it brightened her smile. She was blooming and ardent, and she hardly felt the cold.

“Even if we have to flee on _bloody_ horseback and disregard the orders of the _fucking_ King, we will wed. I swear it.” There was renewed strength in him.

They said that a man could not tell a lie or make a false promise before a heart tree. A chill ran down Sansa’s spine. It did not dampen her spirits, but it did sharpen her awareness.

She felt branded as his hand in her hair came to rest upon the nape of her neck.


	10. snare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor meets another awakening, though one more unkind than he is used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, darlings. I am so sorry for my unbelievably long absence. I have no excuses. I've missed all of you dearly, and missed writing this story even more. I hope you are all well. Sending you my love.
> 
> Over 300 kudos??? I'm astounded. Thank you all !
> 
> Here's a little, but important one. This is from Sandor's POV.

 

> **"So much / of the body can sink / below the river with no / one noticing. The body / is consumed by water / at least once: even / the dead come / up for air." - Ashley Mares**

"My girl, my girl, don't be vexed.  This what you want?"  

Sandor spoke in low, soft bursts against the skin by her ear - as close to honey as his voice could come.  His hands slid up to rest over her bare chest, the firm rise beneath his wide palms hitching and then ebbing with her breath.  She didn't speak, nor could he see her face as her back rested against his chest, but he gathered that he had fulfilled the want spoken only in her hastened tug of his hands upwards from where they had clung tight to her hips.  A soft, girlish sound left her.  

"Such a demanding little thing."

His scrape of a voice was teasing, but only the faintest edge so - drowned in a strange delirium and a thin shroud of effort.  Restraint and attainment were equal tasks.  Most often it was her voice that was most apparent, that took up the most space between them.  Yet, like this, buried in her as she trembled and arched like a bowstring, words seemed to come easier to him, while she struggled to speak even his name properly without pause. Perhaps it was only so in dreaming. He couldn't know for sure. It felt so close to the real thing that he might have been able to trick himself.

The air about them was scathing, and a thin, glistening sheen of sweat lay over his dusk-toned skin.  He briefly imagined her melting in his hands - her body the pale wax of a candle, her hair flickering with every subsequent toss of her head like a flame. There was an almost bitter, harrowing scent in the air, yet he let it fall away, preferring to bury his face in her hair - preferring her scent.

He never slowed.  Sandor was steady, giving what she asked, taking what he would.  When she tried to turn in his arms, he complied, lifting and spinning her around to face him, taking her once more.  Another quiet, girlish plea, this time in his ear.  He replied with an, "I have you," as if it was reassurance she was asking for.  She clung to him tightly, though the strength in her limbs was fickle.  He knew she preferred it this way, where she could look at him.  Fuck if he understood why, if he would ever quite understand, but when she shifted to catch his gaze, the thought was already far behind him.  He stooped slightly, resting his forehead against hers. So close, he could make out every small freckle that dotted across the bridge of her nose.

Moving there with her, she held his eye.  She was a yearning, firm creature, yet there was stillness to the gaze they shared - something that didn't move so quick, not as desperate, but perhaps even more earnest. It pierced him through - her sword plunging through his chest, stilling its beat. The features of her face held a child's whim, grown and matured as they were, but with her lips parted, breath coming labored, he could see the sharpness of her teeth.  He kissed her as if he wanted her to hurt him, as if he wanted the sting of her bite.  She could have eaten him whole, and he would have been glad of it.

"Keep me, love.  Don't let go."  He whispered between kisses, not sparing a wonder at whether she had heard or not.

Her hands on his shoulders turned almost unbearable.  Her nails scraped against his skin, but it stung like a burn.

Sandor couldn't quite manage to breathe, but as soon as a flare of panic welled up in his chest, it was quenched by a docile, passive ease.  His body began to turn slack.  He saw her expression shift as his grip on her began to fall.  There was distinct concern in the pools of her eyes, a sharp sliver of alarm, dismay, fear.  

She was shaking him by his shoulders.  It was futile.  She was speaking, but he couldn't quite hear her.  If anything, her voice sounded off.  It didn't belong to the throat it crept from.  

"Wake!"

She was shouting, and he couldn't even shake his head to protest.

Someone was pulling him under his arms.  His grey eyes, stone, impassive, opened the slightest of distances.

He saw smoke.  He saw fire.  It licked at the bed, at  _him_.  Sandor couldn't make a sound.

His eyes slipped closed once more.


	11. tear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa sends help, and drifts as she waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a particularly fun one to write. Hope you're all well!
> 
> Sansa's POV

> **"If nothing saves us / from death, may / love at least save / us from life." - Javier Velaza**

 

Sansa reflected. She was oddly cold, huddled there in Maester Luwin’s quarters, shivering, clutching the furs about her. Her bare feet were pressed against the warm stone floor, toes curling, yet the heat was drained from her. She was waiting, in truth, though not for the maidservant Maester Luwin had promised to send to her aid.

There, in the corner of her mind where Sandor moved and took breath, his heart beat drew slowly. He came above and below the surface so often - a fickle, delirious, painful state, but he was alive. Sansa prayed, holding onto every heart beat, pressing her hands to her chest desperately as if she could hold on to it.

Struggling to remain conscious, her mind drifted. She pushed her long, sleep-worn strands of hair from her face, clinging on to the notion that perhaps, if she kept breathing, he would have to do the same.

Half-dreaming, half-awake, she recalled just the day before, in the godswood when they had pledged themselves to each other.

They had lingered there. Sansa had opened her cloak, wrapping it about his shoulders as best she could manage. He had scoffed, a hard, rough sound, but she had known there had been no true ill will in it. The falling snow numbed her cheeks, ruddying her skin. As a child, she had hated how sensitive her skin was to even the air, how she bruised like a peach with the gentlest embraces. Yet, she liked it well enough there, knowing that the eager steel of his hold and the scrape of his beard would leave faint marks over her. She half-wished they would never fade. In dreaming, it hadn’t mattered, yet here it was true, and the echoes of it would remain even as the marks faded.

In contrast, she barely saw a shift in his grey, umber-toned skin, as if the cold couldn’t touch him.

_How queer, somehow here he looks every bit a Northman._

The thought gave her a close rush of pride, of possessiveness, of comfort. Taking a dark, smooth strand of his hair between her fingertips, she wondered vaguely, a golden, longing thought, if their children would favor him.

_“What are you thinking of?”_

His voice was a sword on a whetstone, and she met his eyes, knowing he had been gazing at her as she had been lost in thought. The silence had been so comfortable she might’ve forgotten that they hadn’t been speaking.

_“I was just hoping that our children might have your look.”_

He froze in her hold, and somehow she knew that if the notion hadn’t struck him silent, he would’ve been driven to laugh at her - a disbelieving, cruel, almost hurt sound. She could hear it even though he didn’t give it voice. She didn’t flinch under his gaze. His eyes threatened to turn to stone, but there was softness to his expression, about his mouth.

Miraculously, and perhaps against his will, she knew that he believed her. He shook his head, hiding behind a smirk that might’ve as easily been a grimace.

_“Silly little bird. If you could see yourself now, might be you wouldn’t say such things.”_

His voice suggested strain, as if he could hardly keep his tone even. She knew he wanted to lash out - to bite was easier.

She smiled, a gentle, faded smile, giving a shake of her head. She felt much older than she was.

_“I’m not being silly. I’d want them dark, like you, like my father.”_

_Like Arya too._

Having him with her, she had had to grow up quickly, open up parts of her heart that might’ve remained closed for years. It drove out all else, focusing her attention on what truly mattered to her.

_“I would want people to see and know that it is your child I had borne, without doubt.”_

It was as if she had knocked the breath from him, and he exhaled as he drew her close with fervor. His wide, heavy hand pressed against the back of her head, fingers lacing into her hair. His chin rested atop the crown of her head. She clung tight to him, as if he might decide to turn from her, as if a gust of wind might break them apart.

_Believe this_ , she thought, a wish, almost a plea. _Believe believe believe_

A touch of anger occurred to her - one that could so easily harden her hands to fists. The world had reared him while he was out of her reach, and they had been the ones to tell him, to convince him that it was folly - that she surely wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ , want him, that he wasn’t worth what had been his since birth, what compassion should be the right of all.

The anger turned to a fierce determination, and she pressed a kiss to the swell and bob of his thick throat. He shivered, and she wondered how much time had passed.

He pulled a shuddering breath that smoothed out as it came, seemingly having gotten ahold of his wits enough to speak.

_“Allow them a bit of your look, if you would,”_ He said as if it were in her power to decide. She could hear the thin, watery smile on his lips. _“I’d kill to see them blinking those pretty jewels of yours up at me.”_

It was a consent, a small acceptance, a slight give in his bearings.

Now, alone, crouched upon the floor, she shivered, yet the bloom of flush in her features was lost. The relief of her small victory with Maester Luwin had all but faded.

She had awoken, by some miracle, having not allowed herself to slip into the grey where he retreated. She had climbed from her bed with heavy, ungainly gait, wanting to sink to the ground further with every step, yet she pressed on, not knowing at first what she meant to do, yet knowing it could very well mean his life.

It was too early for anyone to be stirring. Fearfully, she wondered if he was alone, unable to crawl out from the flames, yet he was alive. She knew it. She couldn’t tarry in the worry of what the next moment would bring.

For a split second, she had wanted to follow the cord that bound them together, to come to his side, as if her presence alone might heal him and bring him back to the surface. It had been her first instinct, her driving force, yet she knew it wasn’t her that he needed now.

As quick as she could manage, she made her way down dim halls, the heady scent of the stone not standing a chance against the smell of smoke that she knew only she could sense here. Somehow, she made it to Maester Luwin’s chambers, giving an incessant knock at the door.

Sansa heard movement, rustling. It seemed to her that minutes passed - minutes too dear to her to let slide so easily by. She hadn’t even noticed that she had begun to lean her weight into the door, her eyes slipping closed, until it opened just a crack.

“ _Sansa?_ Child, what is it?”

Maester Luwin’s astonished voice slipped through the space in the door, water over smooth stone. As he opened the door all the way to let her inside, she fell into him, and he steadied her as best he could manage it.

His robes were secure, and for a moment the links in his chain dug into her skin. She wondered fleetingly if he had already been awake.

She knew she was a sight, only in her shift and smallclothes, hair rumpled and cast about in the fashion of one just risen, hardly able to stand on her own. Her breath came hard, though her heart beat was a slow rise and fall.

He brought her to sit upon the floor, leaving only briefly to fetch a fur cover that he draped over her shoulders.

She shook her head.

“You have… have to go. Sandor needs you..not,” she shook her head again, only then realizing that tears were falling swift down her cheeks. Her voice was thin, faded, yet she spoke with what urgency she could manage, her form quivering.

“Not me. _Sandor._ Something has happened to…to him. Fire.” She repeated in a whisper, always managing to say his name as if it were a lifeline or a prayer.

Maester Luwin was stooped by her side, brow drawn, concern etched out over his worn features. She clutched at his collar.

“My child, I don’t understand, what has happened to you? What ails you? A nightmare, perhaps?” His words were smooth, firm.

Sansa wouldn’t let a sob mar her task. She swallowed it down, not able to stay the tears from falling, shaking her head desperately.

“It w-w-was a dream, but it’s real. It’s happening now, a-and…you h-have to go help him, _save him_ , please. There’s a fire. Sandor. Nothing…N-Nothing is the matter with me! It’s _him_.”

Maester Luwin’s lips were parted with confusion, questions he hadn’t yet decided to voice.

“ _The Hound_? Sandor Clegane?”

Sansa nodded her head, struggling to keep her eyes open, the next moment struggling not to cry out in pain.

He briefly shot a glance out into the hall.

“But, child, _how_ could you know-“

It seemed to occur to him then, a weight falling upon him, clarity reaching his gaze. It was not the first time he had had to tend to Sansa for a wound or an ailment that didn’t belong to her. He had been there for each one, for the worst of them, and for the scars she felt, yet hadn’t borne. It was he who was the first to know, to realize, and there was something fitting in it. He had been there for the others as well - for Arya when she felt a singe against her skin yet hadn’t been near a flame. Only he hadn’t known any of their Intended’s names, until now, and Sansa knew from his look that he could scarcely believe it, but he couldn’t doubt that what she said was true.

“Please,” She whispered, still clutching to his collar.

It seemed to jostle him from his stillness, and he was back in movement. He gently took her hands from him, giving a soft nod. “I will go now to his chambers, child, I promise,” and she knew it wasn’t just an empty promise to console her, it was truth. Relief hit her like a storm, and she might’ve smiled, a messy, desperate expression. She let him go, and he moved from her, gathering what he meant to bring along.

Before he slipped through the door he gave her one last tender look.

“I will send a lady in waiting to come fetch you, to help you return to your quarters.”

She couldn’t remember if she had thanked him.

Lost in the reverie, it seemed years before a maidservant came to her side, bewildered, yet still expecting her.

“Come, Lady Sansa, it will be alright.”

The girls hands were soft, her voice a warm brush of the wind.

Sansa let the girl lead her away.


End file.
